


A Virtue

by p1013



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Auror Draco Malfoy, Auror Harry Potter, Dirty Talk, Dom Draco Malfoy, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, Intergluteal Sex, Light BDSM, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Spit As Lube, Stakeout, Sub Harry Potter, like super explicit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2020-12-03
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:53:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27858649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/p1013/pseuds/p1013
Summary: Harry thinks stakeouts are boring. Up until the point he doesn't.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 30
Kudos: 415





	A Virtue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [VeelaWings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/VeelaWings/gifts).



As far as Harry's concerned, stakeouts are simultaneously the best and the worst thing about being an Auror. On the upside, there's significantly less chance of him being the victim of an assault, attempted murder, or full murder. He doesn't have to duck behind walls or hide in alleys. There's no chance of spell damage or skinned knees. Stakeouts are, by far and large, the safest thing he can do in the field.

They are also the single most boring, most frustrating part of his job. _Nothing_ happens during a stakeout. You look out a window. Then you look out a window some more. Sometimes, you take bathroom or food breaks, but then it's straight back to the window and looking out of it. He's tried reading while watching, but he almost always nods off or gets so engaged in the book, he loses track of what he's actually supposed to be doing (window looking).

At least he's not alone while he's bored out of his mind, but that's its own kind of frustration. Because Harry's luck has always been the absolute worst, his Auror partner isn't Ron or Neville or any of the other members of the core that Harry can spend time with happily. No, he is stuck with the _one_ person that is sure to make him want to be anywhere else in the world.

Draco fucking Malfoy.

Today, they're camped out in an abandoned warehouse on the edge of a Wizarding district in Edinburgh, trying to catch a potions smuggling ring that's supposedly based out of another warehouse across the street. It's cold and wet because _Edinburgh_ , but the empty concrete building they're stationed in seems to be sucking any and all heat out of Harry's body. Even his warming charms don't seem to touch the pernicious chill. He's got a folding chair, though, so at least he's not sitting on the ground. There's a table across from them arrayed with various surveillance spells — they're all rather finicky things; it took Malfoy a good forty minutes to set them all up earlier — which are happily reporting back that absolutely bloody nothing is going on. Besides the surveillance spells, Malfoy managed to do one other good thing that morning and brought an Ever-Lasting Tea Kettle with him. It's kept them happily supplied with hot Earl Grey since they arrived before morning, though even that's starting to grow old.

Whereas Harry is low-key miserable, Malfoy shows no signs of being bothered by the chill. No, he's got his feet up on the table, cup of tea in hand, eyes following the readouts of the spells and glancing out the window every few minutes. His Auror robes are open around his legs and barely brushing the floor. It's leaving his outfit underneath on full display, a simple white shirt that hugs his leanly muscled chest, his wand holster looped almost nonchalantly across his shoulder and chest. The black leather is polished to a high sheen, so Harry knows that Malfoy's spent time rubbing oil into it, his long, competent fingers moving slow and steady across the straps, back and forth, turning the stiff leather smooth and pliable…

Fuck.

If Malfoy were just an irritating prat, that would be one thing. But the other problem that Harry has to deal with when he's sat next to Malfoy for extended periods of time has nothing to do with his personality. Harry doesn't know when or how it happened, but he is desperately, violently attracted to his partner. It's a painful, aching thing that he can ignore most days except when they're on a stakeout. Harry's choices are either to stare out the window or stare at Malfoy, which means there are no good options.

If he were less of a professional, he'd pout.

Instead, he gets himself another cup of tea and skims through the surveillance readouts.

"Nothing new, Potter," Malfoy says. The legs of his chair creak as he leans back. "If our smugglers are working out of that building, they're not here yet."

"Yeah, I know." Harry flips through the readouts again, then sighs angrily. "Couldn't be considerate enough to get here early. No, they've got to keep their illegal activities to the middle of the fucking day."

Malfoy laughs, and it's like a warm palm on the dip of Harry's waist or the back of his neck—gentle but insistent pressure that Harry wants to give into, to let his mind drift away under the soft guidance of someone else's body directing him to move one way or another.

Except there are windows that need looking out of, and Draco Malfoy is _not_ the person Harry needs right now, even if he wants him.

"Well, what do you suggest we do with this fine morning, then?" Malfoy gestures around the vacant, barren room. "Interior decorating?"

Harry snorts. "A coat of paint wouldn't hurt."

"I know it's a controversial opinion, but we could review the case notes."

"You and I both know that folder back to front." Harry falls into his chair. "What else do you have?"

"Sometimes talking these things through helps. You remember that kidnapping from three months back?"

Harry sighs. "No, I know. This isn't nearly as exciting, though."

"You don't think underground, unpredictable Veritaserum smuggling is exciting?"

Harry shrugs. "Not terribly, no. I mean, they've got a lab set up in there. Eventually, someone's going to show up to brew shit, and then we bust them. There's no… mystery to it."

"Mystery." Draco laughs. "You're in this for the mystery?"

"And getting bad guys off the streets."

"Well, in this case, you're getting them out of a warehouse." Malfoy looks out the window and sighs again. "A very boring, inactive warehouse."

"Very." Harry sighs, then gestures to the readouts. "Let's go over the case again, I guess."

"Fantastic." Malfoy sits forward, his chair falling to the ground with a loud thunk that echoes through the room. He grabs a folder, and a moment later, he's leaning back on two legs, feet back up on the table, folder open between his thighs.

His well-muscled thighs, encased in black fabric that looks to be straining at the seams. "The DMLE first received reports of suspects dosed with Veritaserum acting oddly about three months ago. Measured doses with effects that were either too weak or too strong, wix only lying instead of telling the truth, other odd behavior that started after the suspects took the potion."

"And thanks to someone in the filing department, we were able to narrow down the supplier to one of two new contracts with the DMLE. Both appeared to be reputable at first glance, but on further investigation, there were irregularities that required further investigation." Harry glares out the window. "Like reviewing invoices and stakeouts. And somehow, we've ended up with the more boring option."

"Not every moment of your life needs to be filled with excitement, Potter. At least you got a trip out of it. Think of it like a vacation. You can just sit back, relax." Draco gestures at his feet on the table. "Kick up your feet a little bit."

"Yeah, a little hard to do that."

Malfoy raises an eyebrow. "Really? I'd think that after all of the excitement you had growing up, you'd love nothing more than to sit back and do nothing."

Malfoy's not entirely wrong. Harry desperately wishes he was the kind of person who could lay out on the couch all day, doing nothing better than staring at the ceiling and napping. He'd tried it more than once, but it had only ended with him wondering where that new crack came from and how much trouble it would be to get the house to agree to having it repaired. And then he'd be off, his mind whirling through thought after thought, unstoppable until something made it stop. After spending his whole childhood running from one peril to another, his brain has been hardwired into a state of _constant vigilance_. Even when he wants to, he's hard pressed to find comfort in sitting still. It's too much like waiting for the next disaster to roll through, with Harry unprepared and vulnerable as it bowls him over.

"No, not particularly."

"Hard to get out of your head, I imagine." Malfoy flips through the case file, then sighs. "Well, I'm afraid there's not much I can do to help, then. I'm more than willing to wait for things to happen. No point in rushing it, is what I think."

Staring out the bloody fucking window into the cold, grey day, Harry can't help but let out an unhappy sigh. "Patience is a virtue I'm sorely lacking in."

"There are ways to learn it." Malfoy gives Harry a long look, then turns his eyes back to the window. "It just takes focus."

"Right." Harry laughs, though his throat is tight. Malfoy's got his head tilted back, the long line of his neck a tempting curve that Harry can't keep his eyes off. "Focus."

"It's amazing what you can do with a clear head and a guiding hand."

Harry's warming charm must finally be kicking in because he's suddenly warm. The heat winds its way through his entirely body, moving with each painful kick of his heart.

"Who…" His voice cracks, and he swallows. "Who taught you?"

"My father, at first. He'd give me these massive books of family history, then quiz me on them at dinner. I wasn't allowed to eat until I was able to answer his questions." Malfoy smiles, though it's as cold as the concrete. "I can still recite the family tree back five generations on both my mother and father's side."

"Christ, Malfoy."

Malfoy turns his head to the side, just enough to glare at Harry, before looking back out the window. "I don't need your pity, Potter. It taught me how to focus, and it's given me a party trick when I need it."

"It sounds like abuse."

"It was." The honesty startles Harry. "But I haven't let it define me or my adult life. Well." Malfoy laughs, and this time, there's that warmth again, the one that makes Harry's attraction for the man unbearable, the one that feels like a touch. "Not all of it, at least."

He shouldn't ask, but he does. "What do you mean?"

"Ah." Malfoy's flush is barely perceptible, but Harry knows the shade of his skin, and it's tinged pink right now, blood rising to the thin skin above his cheekbones. "It's not entirely appropriate for a work conversation."

Harry wordlessly cancels his warming charm. It's burning him up. "It's not like we've got anything better to do."

Malfoy gives Harry another considering look, and there's a glint in his eye that Harry can't tell if he likes or hates. Either way, Malfoy takes his feet off of the table and plants them firmly on the floor, knees spread open as he turns to face Harry more fully.

"Well. Immediately after the war, I had some… issues that I needed to work out. I started with a Mind Healer, and after months of therapy, we determined that I had a need to feel in control of my life, a way to exercise some kind of _power_ over my environment." 

He puts his arm over the back of his chair, and for the first time since Harry met Malfoy, the man slouches. It makes him look easy, relaxed, in control. It makes him look like seduction poured into a shirt and trousers and left carelessly where anyone could fall into its trap.

"We tried mindfulness. We tried exercise. I started making lists so that I could track what I needed to do and when I did it. And for a while, it helped. Like most things in my life, however, it wasn't enough. That's the first time I went to a club."

Harry's throat is tight. "Like a nightclub?"

"It was a club I went to at night, if that's what you mean." Malfoy runs his hand over the strap of his wand holster, then looks out the window again. "But if you mean a place where you can get drinks and dance to terrible pop music, then no. It wasn't like a nightclub at all."

"So, a social club, then."

Malfoy smiles, slow and easy. It sends heat licking through Harry, and he does his best to look nonchalant as he undoes the top fastening of his robes, then the next. The cold air of the warehouse is a relief and a temptation at the same time, and he stops himself from taking his whole robe off, and to hell with what Malfoy might think of the action.

"That's one way to think of it. It's a bit more… earthly than that, but it's a reasonable synonym for the place. Anyway, it taught me an awful lot more than my Mind Healer could. That was" — he pauses, thinking — "I'd say about three years ago."

"So, this social club. What do you do there?"

Malfoy laughs, another powerful, ephemeral touch against Harry's overheated skin. "Well, that's absolutely an inappropriate topic for a work chat. And, if I'm not mistaken, we've got movement across the street."

Disappointment, unwelcome and unexpected, lances through Harry, followed quickly by recrimination. He shouldn't be disappointed that their targets are finally doing something. The interruption is _welcome_ , damn it. Finally, things are happening.

"We've got two entering through the front," Malfoy continues, already out of his chair and standing closer to the window. "Older white male. Thinning hair, tall, bit of a paunch. He's wearing black robes, which is going to be absolutely no help at all later."

"What about the other suspect?" Harry redoes his fastenings as he joins Malfoy by the window. "I only see the one."

"They went in before I could get a clear look. I think they were a bit shorter, younger. Maybe female, though it was hard to tell. They were wearing robes, too."

Harry presses closer to the glass. It's frigid, and he enjoys the miniscule relief from the way his skin feels like it's on fire still. Malfoy presses up against Harry's side, his sharp, handsome face so close to Harry's that he can feel Malfoy's exhaled breath as it fogs the glass.

"Merlin," Draco says before rubbing the condensation away with his hand. "Sorry about that. Do you see anyone else?"

"No." Harry can't breathe. Malfoy's too close, too much for Harry's mind to process. He takes a step back, then another. His hip bangs into the edge of the table, jostling the surveillance spells, and it shocks him out of whatever stupor he'd fallen into. "No, I just saw the one."

"Damnation. Looks like it's back to waiting, then." Malfoy glares out the window, then looks at the table. "Merlin, what did you do?"

Harry, still struggling to breathe, looks at the spells, which are spitting out incomprehensible gibberish. "I…" Harry looks back to Malfoy. "I don't know."

"Go watch the window while I get these set to rights. Honestly, Potter, I don't know how you managed to get out of training."

Flushing, Harry walks back to the window. Malfoy knocks into him as they pass, his shoulder hard and heavy as it presses against Harry's. They glance at each other, and though he hates to admit it, Harry's the one to look away first.

Outside the window, the street is empty. It's started raining again, though it's more of a mist than an actual downpour. It's enough to smudge the window, and Harry casts a hasty _Protego_ to keep it clear. Beneath them, the street is glistening with wet. The street gutters are filling with water, though the roadway doesn't look anywhere near to flooding. Dingy dark water trickles its way to wide metal grates before falling away into the sewers below. The warehouse across from them remains still and dark, no signs of the people Malfoy saw entering. Harry starts to turn away from the window, to go back to his chair and his seated boredom, but as soon as he turns his head away, Malfoy whips his head up from the surveillance spells and glares.

"You need to watch the window, Potter. Until I get these fixed, you're our eyes."

"Right," Harry says, quickly returning his gaze to the rain-dotted window and the grey world outside. "Sorry."

"I bet you are."

Harry winces. "I already apologised."

"Unconvincingly."

There's a drop sliding down the glass that looks a bit like a snake. Harry follows it until it flows into another droplet, and they both tumble quickly to the sill outside. "What do you want me to say?"

"My apologies, sir, for the trouble."

"Sir?" Harry asks, though it sounds strangled, and his chest is hot and itchy.

"You do remember that I outrank you, yes?" Malfoy asks. "I graduated from the training program before you do."

"By two weeks."

"I don't know how long it will take you to learn this particular lesson, Potter, but when it comes to bureaucracy, specificity matters."

"Then I'm sorry." Harry settles his hand on the windowsill, his knuckles pressed against the cold glass. "Sir."

The word echoes through the room, bouncing off the concrete walls and floor at the same tempo as Harry's blood pulsing through his veins. Even the sound of the surveillance spells, still dutifully spitting out their reports, quiets in the aftermath of the title.

Harry can't turn around, can't do anything but stare out the window. There's a rustle of fabric behind him, and then a soft thump as Malfoy sheds his robes. At least, that's what Harry thinks is happening behind him. He daren't look away from the window to check. 

"That's better."

The praise makes Harry's hair stand on end and his fingers curl into his palms.

"Keep watching," Malfoy commands. Harry wants to protest, to fight the order, but his agreement is falling from his lips like a drop of rain trickling down a window pane, pulled inexorably by gravity and unable to stop.

"Yes, sir."

Malfoy curses, and now Harry's blood is boiling. He wants to take his robes off like Malfoy, wants relief from this overwhelming heat. But Malfoy hasn't ordered him to do it, and so Harry doesn't.

Malfoy's voice is rough, but steady, when he says, "Put your hands on the window frame, forehead on the glass."

Harry does as he's told, and the capitulation makes him shiver. His mind steadies. It's so easy to give in, to stop bloody thinking.

Over the sound of the spells, Harry makes out the creak of plastic and metal. Malfoy sitting in the chair. There's another rustle of fabric, then nothing.

"Do you know what you're doing, Potter?"

Harry swallows, his forehead cold and damp with condensation. "No."

"And do you know what you're asking from me?"

"Maybe. Yes." He takes a deep breath, lets it out. "Sir."

"Fuck." Fabric against fabric, then the soft pop of a button through its hole. "Tell me what you see."

"No movement across the street," Harry says, his breath clouding the glass. The bloom of white is the only proof he's breathing. His lungs feel full and heavy, unmoving. "No lights on inside, either. I haven't seen anyone approach or leave the building."

"Spread your legs."

Harry does with a gasp.

"I didn't tell you to stop talking, Potter. You're making amends for messing up the spells, aren't you?"

"Y— Yes, sir."

"What else?"

"It's raining." The heat from his hands has created small halos of fog at the edges of the window. He swipes it away with his thumb, only to watch it reform.

At first, Harry thinks the soft tick from behind him is rain making its persistent way through the ceiling to land, slow and steady, on the floor somewhere in the recesses of the warehouse. As he strains to make it out, he realizes it's metallic — the teeth of a zipper, sliding through the pull.

"And?" Malfoy asks, and this time he's the breathless one.

"It's cold." Harry's trousers are uncomfortably tight around his cock. He normally keeps it tucked to the side, so now it's partially caught in his trouser leg, and though it strains against the fabric, he can't shift it with his hands pressed against the window frame and his legs still spread. "I'm warm."

"You're hot." Another beat of silence, then Malfoy spits. The sound of skin against skin. "You should see what you look like, Potter."

"What are you doing?"

"Ah, ah, ah. You don't ask the questions. Take off your robe." A quiet, shuddering exhale. "Slowly."

Harry peels his hands off the window frame and slides his arms from his sleeves. His robes look like pooled blood on the floor beneath him, and, without prompting, he puts his hands back where they'd been a moment ago. The wood is cool again, but quickly warms.

"Very good." The chair groans as Malfoy shifts his weight, and the slow, steady sound of what Harry hopes is Malfoy's hand on his prick speeds up. "You're rather obedient when you want to be, aren't you?"

"Fuck you, Malfoy."

"Only if you're well-behaved, and you don't seem to be that today. Legs wider."

Harry shifts, and the bunched fabric between his hip and leg bites into his prick. He curses at the pain, though it only makes him harder.

"Having some difficulties over there?" The chair scrapes against the floor again, only this time it's followed by the sound of Malfoy's footsteps across concrete. Harry can feel the heat of him against his back, and when Malfoy speaks, it brushes the nape of his neck. "Do you need help, Auror Potter?"

"Yes," Harry chokes out. His fingers dig into the window frame. "Please."

"Don't move," Malfoy says against the shell of Harry's ear.

A moment later, Malfoy's hands are pressed against the leather of Harry's belt. They move deftly over the buckle, easing the prong from its hole and sliding the leather strap free. It whispers through the loops on Harry's trousers, then falls to the floor with a clang. Harry groans.

"Patience, Potter," Malfoy says as his fingers ghost over the fastenings of Harry's trousers. "You need to learn to wait."

He's so warm. There's sweat gathering beneath his shirt, pooling between the crease of his shoulder blades. It trickles down his back as the rain slides down the glass, as Malfoy's fingers pop his trouser button and pull his zipper down. It releases the pressure against his hip, and he exhales in relief, though he's still aching.

Malfoy pulls Harry's shirt from the loosened waistband of his trousers. The cold air against his lower back chills him until Malfoy takes Harry's sides in hand and pulls him back. Stumbling, Harry goes with the motion until he's bent uncomfortably over, his hands still on the window frame and over his head, his legs spread and the front of his trousers dangling open beneath him.

"The things I want to do to you right now," Malfoy says as he drags Harry's shirt up his back, leaving it bunched and sweat-soaked between his shoulder blades. Malfoy's fingers bite into the muscles of Harry's back, dragging painfully down before they stop at his waistband. "You've been tormenting me with this body for months. No shirt during training exercises. Towel forgotten in the locker room. Your damned shoes by your desk, and your feet, bare on the floor." First one finger, then another, slips under Harry's waistband. Each touch is like a brand, and Harry's burning with it. "And do you know what I've done, Potter? Do you know how I handled it?"

"No," he gasps out.

"Sir."

" _Sir_." He's shaking now. His cock is aching and hard, and he can't stop shivering.

When Malfoy pulls Harry's trousers down, they scrape and drag across his skin. His legs are too far apart for them to go much farther than the top of Harry's thighs, but his arse is barred, and the cold air against his heated skin and finally, achingly free cock, feels incredible.

"I was patient." Malfoy's competent, insistent fingers pry Harry's cheeks further apart and brush teasingly against his hole. "I should've known you wouldn't wear pants, Potter. You're a bit of a slut, aren't you?"

"Fuck, Malfoy." Harry's hands clench on the window frame. "Damn it, get on with it already."

That competent touch teases against his hole, tracing the puckered edge with light pressure that has Harry canting his hips back for more. "It's all about patience, Potter. The wait. The _anticipation_. Holding yourself back because the reward is that much sweeter at the end. See, I could ram my cock into you right now, unprepared and tight as a fist around me. It would be bloody fantastic, me fucking you like that. You'd love the pain of it because I told you to, and I'd love the power of having you breaking apart beneath me." He drags the pad of his thumb across Harry's hole, teasing before he steals his touch away. "Or I could put my mouth on you and my tongue, and wreck you until you're open and dripping wet and ready for me." Malfoy's thumb presses against Harry's hole again, and Harry hisses in a breath at the possibilities. "Tell me, which sounds better to you?"

Harry pushes back, and Malfoy breaches him with a sharp, stinging burn. At first, Harry thinks Malfoy is going to pull his thumb back, but instead, he presses in deeper, corkscrewing in before catching against Harry's rim as he takes his thumb out. It hurts, but in the best way possible, and Harry feels empty when Malfoy takes his touch away.

"I think I'll have to be a bit more pointed with my lesson," Malfoy says. He spits, and Harry startles at the feel of hot saliva in the small of his back. It drips down his crack, running over his hole before sliding along the globe of his ass to settle in the crease at the top of his leg. Malfoy spits again, then runs his fingers through the gathered dampness, smearing it between Harry's cheeks. "Tell me what you see."

Harry looks back out the window, panting. "Nothing. There's nothing out there."

"Oh, there must be something," Malfoy says before he slots his cock between Harry's cheeks. "Tell me, Potter."

The first drag of Malfoy's cock over Harry's hole has him slamming his eyes shut. He forces them open as Malfoy starts to thrust, slow and lazy as his hands bite into Harry's hips, holding him still and steady.

"Rain," he pants, desperate, his cock leaking. "Everything's wet. It's — fuck, Malfoy, faster — it's cold. There's… there's smoke coming out of the chimneys. And… and clouds and shit. God, I can't…"

"You can," Malfoy says, though his voice is low and filled with gravel. "That's the whole point, Potter. You can do so much if you put your mind to it. Now, talk to me."

"The door is black. There are" — he quickly counts — "four windows across the front. I need you to fuck me, Malfoy. Please, I need — "

Malfoy's mouth is hot and wet against the nape of Harry's neck. "I know what you need."

"Give it to me, then," Harry gasps.

Malfoy thrust through Harry's crack, the head of his cock catching on Harry's rim. "When you're ready, Potter. In the meantime, hold onto that window while I fuck you the way I want."

"Shit." Harry's cock aches. "Fuck."

"Shut up, Potter. I'm trying to concentrate."

Malfoy's thrusts speed up, and as he does, he starts talking. At first, Harry can't make out the words. They're muffled by the sound of Malfoy's hips slamming into Harry's, the slick-slide of his prick in Harry's crack, his own panted breaths and beating heart. Slowly, they start becoming louder. Clearer.

"Wanted this for a long time," Malfoy pants. "Wanted you spread out before me and desperate. I have wanked myself raw thinking about you, and now, look at you. So good for me. So fucking hot. Gods."

Harry's breath has fogged over the glass. He can't see anything anymore, his mind blank and empty, everything tightened down to the point where Malfoy's cock is hot and hard against Harry's arse. He wants to make this good for Malfoy, wants to make him feel good. Arching his back, he pushes back against Malfoy's cock, lets it rub and slide against his skin, pays no mind to his own building pleasure.

"Sir," he chokes out. "Please."

Malfoy shouts, and something hot and wet spills over Harry's arse and back. The drag of Malfoy's cock eases, and even though Harry knows Malfoy's come, he doesn't stop thrusting.

"That's right," he says as he rubs his come into Harry's skin. "That's good."

"Can I…"

"You'll come when I tell you to," Malfoy snaps, but his fingers curl around Harry's cock a moment later. "Patience, Harry."

Harry feels the orgasm building, quick and hot like lightning through the sky. "Oh, fuck. Malfoy. Please, oh fuck, _please_."

"What do you call me?" His breath is hot against Harry's ear.

"Sir."

Malfoy's hand on Harry's cock tightens to the edge of pain. "That's right. Sir."

He jerks Harry hard and fast. His palm is hot and still sticky with his come, and though it's too rough, too much, Harry doesn't think anything's felt so good in his life. One, two strokes, and then he's coming, fingernails biting into wood as the world whites out around him.

Malfoy murmurs quiet words into Harry's neck. There's a moment where the brush of his lips feels like a kiss, then another, but before Harry's mind clears, Malfoy's pulling away.

Still bent over and catching his breath, Harry feels Malfoy's _Scourgify_ race over his skin. Eyes closed and forehead pressed against the sill, Harry listens for Malfoy to walk away, for his footsteps to trail back to the table and the spells, to see what they've missed while they made this mistake.

Except it doesn't feel like a mistake to Harry. It feels like it should be the start of something, something he's barely able to admit he's wanted, so badly and for so long.

But Malfoy doesn't walk away. Instead, he pulls Harry's trousers back up, carefully tucks Harry's spent prick away. He closes the zipper, fastens the button, retrieves Harry's belt from the floor.

"Watch the warehouse," Malfoy says softly as he threads it back through Harry's belt loops. Gentle and steady, he rubs Harry's back, easing the sore muscles there. "Be careful when you stand up. You might be a bit light headed."

Harry is, but he doesn't think it's from being bent over for so long. When he finally lets go of the window frame and turns to face Malfoy, Harry's throat is tight when Draco takes his hands and starts massaging them.

"What are you doing?"

Malfoy looks up at Harry through the gilded sweep of his lashes. "This is part of it, Potter. The care after."

"The care…"

"Of course." Malfoy turns Harry's palms up and pulls gently on his fingers.

"You. _You_ care."

Another gold-bright glance. "Yes."

He grabs at Malfoy's hands, stopping them. Without fully knowing what he's doing, he pulls the other man closer. The first step Draco takes is hesitant, but then he comes easily. Hands shaking, Harry runs them up Draco's chest, then his neck, stopping once he's cradling Draco's face in his hands. When he draws Draco's mouth to his own, their lips touching for the first time, Harry feels heat lance through him, as sharp and insistent as when Draco had fucked between his arse cheeks.

He's about to lose himself to the feel of it, the gentle push and pull of lips against lips, when something starts shrieking from the table. Draco curses, and Harry catches it between his parted lips.

"They're moving, Potter," Draco says before dragging him in for another, less gentle kiss. "We've got a job to do."

Harry nods and lets Draco's hand fall from his. For now, at least. He can be patient.

"Yes, sir."

**Author's Note:**

> Noella. You are one of the bright lights of 2020 for me. Your friendship and support have helped me get through this godawful year, and I do not know what I would've done without you. Whether we were talking about ugly houses or the election or exactly what kind of disaster bi Harry would be, you have always put a smile on my face. I wish you the happiest of birthdays and an incredible 2021.
> 
> And thank you, Michelle, for a last minute beta read. You're a life saver, always and forever. _BUTTS._


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